


The Flight of the Eagle

by EnricoDandolo



Series: What We Cling To [2]
Category: Code Geass
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:13:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnricoDandolo/pseuds/EnricoDandolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1808, Europe is ablaze with war and Napoleon graps for Spain. As the Spanish people rise against the French occupation, Nunnally has to fight her demons; as the British send an army to support them, Lelouch plots for power and glory; as the Emperor sends troops to enforce his rule, Cecilia is thrown into a nightmare. As ambition consumes them, only St. Helena may bring peace ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Eagle's Claws

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part of an AU fanfiction. The first part has been published seperately as "Raise the Bloodied Banner." (in this series on AO3) If you have not yet read the first part, I recommend you do that first (though you can go without), if you have, welcome back.
> 
> Warning ahead: In this fic, three interconnected plotlines / POVs play parallelly. The order is as follows: Nunnally - Lelouch - Cecilia / C.C. The fic is also based on history, and will have the occasional infodump. Also, all of our main characters are somewhat to very dickish.
> 
> Disclaimer: Code Geass is not mine. I have taken loose inspiration from The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas and War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy. Unless stated otherwise, I try and use historical personages or transplanted Code Geass characters in place of OCs. There will be a particular focus on His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon the Great; Sir Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington; Sir George Scovell; FitzRoy Somerset, 1st Baron Raglan, and others.
> 
> Main pairings: Lelouch x Shirley, Nunnally x Suzaku x Euphemia, a somewhat creepy one-sided relationship between Nunnally and Nunnalouch.
> 
> Main characters: Lelouch, Nunnally, C.C., also Rolo, Suzaku, Clovis and Jeremiah
> 
> Bibliography:
> 
> \- Wikipedia
> 
> \- The Napoleon Series, napoleon-series.org
> 
> \- Napoleon, His Army and Enemies, at napolun.com
> 
> \- The Marteau Early 18th-Century Currency Converter, at pierre-marteau.com
> 
> \- Volker Hunecke: Napoleon. Das Scheitern eines guten Diktators (Paderborn, 2011)
> 
> \- Philip Dwyer: Citizen Emperor. Napoleon in Power 1799-1815 (London, 2013)
> 
> \- Other sources as noted.
> 
> Reviews are appreciated and will be responded to at the soonest possible opportunity. I prefer a critical review to a dozen faves.

What We Cling To

 

_Second Part:_

 

The Flight of the Eagle

 

“ _A man will fight long and hard for a bit of coloured ribbon.”_

– Napoléon I, Emperor of the French

 

 

 

**The Eagle’s Claws**

 

_Madrid, 3 May 1808_

 

The door was opened and her cell filled with a blinding white light.

“ _Lève-toi!”_

Nunnally Lamperouge, curled up in the cell’s corner, did not stir. From the corner of her eye she could see a dark silhouette against the bright daylight in the doorway. Impatiently the man repeated his command, then grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. She offered no resistance. Another hand took hold of another arm, and the soldiers dragged her out of the cell. As she stumbled down the narrow corridor between the soldiers, her eyes slowly adjusted to the light. Uncaring stares from her fellow prisoners. The cells on either side of the corridor seemed more crowded than when she had last seen them a fortnight ago. 

With every step, a shockwave ran through her body. Her wounds were minor, but they had not healed well in the damp darkness of the cell. She had not eaten nor slept for what seemed like days. Dirty strands of hair obscured her vision. The men dragged her up a staircase and down another corridor. If only she were armed – but what use would a sword be without the strength to wield it? From the corner of her eye she caught a glance through the open door into the room where the brief tribunal had taken place – not there had ever been any question. She had been ambushed by a detachment of French gendarmes on the road to Madrid. No hesitation, no question – they had known she was coming. The first few days of her imprisonment she had desperately tried to figure out where the mistake that had led to her capture lay, but as delirium clouded her mind, she had given up on that. As she had given up on everything else.

One rough shove and Nunnally stood outside in the blazing sunlight. Freedom? No, the courtyard of the prison. Several other prisoners were also present, watched over on one side by a handful of soldiers and an officer with a list. Indifferently she noticed that none of them could have been imprisoned for more than a few days, judging from their appearance. She was the only woman among them, and at thirty years one of the oldest (she probably looked older than she was, as well; it had been at least a year since she had last looked in a mirror), excepting an elderly man in a priest’s habit. One of her escorts gave a command, but she only caught the last words, _“… formez une ligne!”_ The butt of a musket in her back underlined the order, and Nunnally (with slow, but increasingly sure step) got in line with the other prisoners, leaning against the wall for support. None of them spoke a word.

The officer threw a look at his list. “Let’s begin,” he said in that detested language of his, “Gabriel Velazquez, student of the laws, found guilty of armed insurrection.”

The man in question had understood no more than his own name and looked as confused as was frightened. One of the soldiers answered in his stead. “Present.”

“Joaquin Cortes, baker, found guilty of armed insurrection.”

“Got him.”

“Abbé Alvaro Lira, priest of the Roman confession, found guilty of incitement to treason and armed insurrection. My, my, how unchristian of you.” The priest’s presence was confirmed.

“Gaspar Ramundo, vagabond, found guilty of begging and armed insurrection.” To her mild surprise, the beggar answered for himself in unaccented French. 

“Jose Hernandes, employed at a textile factory, found guilty of armed insurrection.” Nunnally had to wonder what she had missed these past two weeks.

“Jose Zermeno, haberdasher, found guilty of armed insurrection and murder of an officer in the service of His Majesty the Emperor.” – “Present.” 

“Suzaku Kururugi, blacksmith’s apprentice, found guilty of armed insurrection.” A strange name, she idly thought, but then again so was hers. His presence was affirmed. 

“Nunnally Lamperouge, brigand. Obviously … oh well. We don’t have all day.”

It took Nunnally a moment to realise the French soldiers’ intentions. Five men formed a line facing the courtyard wall and loaded their muskets. _What a waste of good saltpetre._

One by one, the other prisoners were made to stand against the wall and fusilladed. While the firing squad reloaded, two more soldiers removed the bodies. Nunnally tried to watch impassively. She would die, she knew, but there was nothing she could do about it. Weak, and disarmed, and bereft of fraternal aid and comfort. Nevertheless, her throat was tight and her hands were twitchy – perhaps it was the line of muskets, unerring, death-bringing steel, or rather the hands that guided them. Blue uniforms lined white piped red, golden eagles and ‘N’s on shakos and coattails. Was there anything more humiliating? Or perhaps it was the begging for mercy of the victims. _Those aren’t rebels,_ she thought, but then decided it was best not to dwell on that.

To his credit, the priest did not beg – he was mown down halfway through his prayer. The soldiers botched the execution of the haberdasher, necessitating a shot to the head at point-blanc range from the officer’s pistol. Then it was the turn of the apprentice with the strange name. Beside that peculiarity, there was nothing extraordinary about him – an average face, green eyes, brunette, tall and muscular owing to his profession, plain attire. Nonetheless she felt a certain interest. Invariably, her tired eyes were drawn to his person. “I am no rebel,” the boy firmly insisted when he was brought before the firing squad. He said it with more indignation than fear. Fool, did he think he could change the verdict? “I am a blacksmith’s apprentice, the hammer you found my with is a tool of my trade, not a weapon …”

For the first time in what seemed like months, Nunnally smiled. Stupid naïve fool. Even if he had spoken French, their executioners would not have cared. Still, it was endearing, in a way … Nunnally sighed and closed her eyes. She had known for fifteen years that she might well die in the pursuit of her goals, and had accepted that chance. Only she had always pictured herself dying sword in hand, in battle. 

“ _Présentez armes! Prêts, à mon commandement!_ ”

Nunnally realised that she did not want the young man to die.

The command to fire never came. Rapid footsteps, the clicking of heels. “ _Mon capitaine!_ ” She opened her eyes. The soldiers had lowered their muskets. Another officer had entered the courtyard and was just returning her executioner’s salute.

“At ease, _carporal._ Take your men and come with me. Trouble at the Royal Palace. Orders from the _Grand Chapeau_ himself.”

The corporal seemed confused. “What, the Emperor?”

“Marshal Murat, you fool. Now drop what you’re doing and come with me.”

“But, sir …”

“The prisoners are not going to run away.”

Her executioner muttered something under his breath, then turned. “Eure, Patenaude, Latour, Géroux, return the prisoners to their cells. The rest with me.”

Like limbs to the mind, the soldiers obeyed without question or impulse. Again her arms were grabbed by rough hands, but this time she shook them off and marched – if slowly, and insecurely – ahead of her gaolers of her own strength. The man – Kururugi? – uttered a relieved prayer at this brief respite. They were led back inside the block of cells. Not a word was spoken. At some point, Nunnally looked back and realised that the other prisoner was no longer behind her, presumably led off to a different block. She could not help but feel a slight pang of guilt for failing to rescue him, even when she could not even save herself. _Still_ , she thought, _he has a noble heart, that one. To face death with such serenity!_

“Hold on,” one of her escorts said and halted his steps, and it took her a moment to realise that the words had been directed at his comrade and not her. “While we’re here, I need to get new cartridges from the armoury. I’ve only two left.”

“Ah, sure,” the other man replied. “Better hurry, though; captain will want us back soon.”

“I’ll be just a minute. You’ll manage the prisoner?”

The soldier gave a derisive laugh. Nunnally tried not to let her understanding of French show. “Of course I will. What do you hold me for that I couldn’t detain some filthy peasant woman for a minute?”

“I’m more worried about our prisoners multiplying if I leave you alone with her.”

“Hey, that was only once. The girl in Hamburg doesn’t count …” Laughing, the first Frenchman walked off in the direction of the armoury. Through the open door, she caught a glimpse of dull and of shining steel; muskets, bayonets – swords? A faint hope caught on within her. The chance was too opportune not to use it.

Nunnally waited until the soldier had disappeared from sight and she could hear him speaking to someone in the armoury, though she could not make out the words. She closely watched her escort, who had produced a pipe from his shako and was struggling to light it. Nunnally bit her lip in thought. If only she could get behind him … but the man stood with his back to the wall. He was about the same size as her – his yellow collar and epaulettes marked him as a voltigeur, a vaulter, which was to say a skirmisher. Even so take him on in open combat would be madness, even if there weren’t his compatriots in the adjoining rooms of the fortress to worry about.

With a frustrated sigh, she leant against the wall next to the Frenchman, who chuckled with some disbelief at the sight. “Disrupted your plans for today, did we?,” he good-naturedly joked and seemed to find himself incredibly funny. Again, she tried to hide her understanding. Her eye fell on the voltigeur’s side arm on his left hip, the standard-issue sabre-briquet. She had experienced the notorious dullness of the blade on her own flesh, but the short sword would serve, if only she could get her hands on it … Or perhaps she could snatch the musket from his hand? The fixed bayonet was thin and too light to be properly wielded in hand, yet it would suffice to kill a man who did not expect it. But what was she even thinking? She would not last long, even if she should be some miracle escape. She knew her own weakness and had been resigned to certain death but a brief while ago, whence then that sudden and unwelcome change? Perhaps it was but the hope sparked within her by catching a glimpse of the armoury.

Her captor was still trying to elicit sparks from his tinderbox to light his pipe with. “Damn flint must be used up again,” he muttered under his breath. Then, he leaned his musket against the wall, took off his knapsack and sat it on the ground to search for a replacement. Almost without thinking, Nunnally’s hand slowly, ever so slowly, reached for the musket … a flick of a switch, and the bayonet lay in her hand, cutting deeply into her flesh.

“Huh, what …” Before her victim could finish the thought, Nunnally put her hand over his mouth and, in a single fluid movement, rammed the bayonet into his throat seven or eight times. His words turned into a gurgle. The dull impact of his body on the floor boards, the metallic rattle of his arms and insignia, seemed to her as if even the ogre in Paris must have heard it. Hastily, Nunnally grabbed the sabre-briquet from the pool of blood that was starting to form, and hid next to the door to the armoury, holding her breath.

To her immense surprise, she was not immediately set upon by half a dozen enemies. She believed to make out some words – “You heard that?” – “Heard what? Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, there you are. Try to fire your gun less, we’re short of ammunition as it is. Bloody English.”

For a brief moment, Nunnally closed her eyes in relief. If the men inside had not heard, she had some more time. She could only hope no one would come along; even if she … Heavy footsteps interrupted her thoughts. She tensed and readied the briquet in her hand. The door opened. It took the soldier a moment to attach the refilled cartridge box to his shoulder belt – a moment she exploited by ramming the sabre in his stomach. A surprised scream, she withdrew the blade and darted into the armoury. The quartermaster drew his sword. 

Nunnally hesitated. The briquet in her hand felt tiny and brittle against a real weapon. He had the advantage of reach, and rest, and – “ _Vive l’Empereur!_ ” With that battle cry, he charged at her. Not a heartbeat too late she dodged the officer’s downward slash and tried a thrust at his side, but failed to strike flesh. They whirled around each other to dodge simultaneous strikes, then a swift kick swept her off her feet. Before she had even touched the ground, Nunnally retaliated and brought him to the ground. She rolled around to stab him, the officer scurried away and raised himself up against a rack of swords. Before he had recovered, Nunnally jumped at him, and together they crashed into the shelf. Her opponent uttered a surprised gasp, as though all the air were pressed from his lungs, and Nunnally followed it up with a punch in the face. (Had she dropped the briquet? She must have.) A knee to her groin later and the French officer was above her, pummelling in on her chest and face – with her left arm she tried to defend herself as well as possible, while her right hand searched for something to grasp, anything to return the advantage to her – her briquet, perhaps, or a sword – she grasped blade after blade, in her hand impure blood mixed with her own …

There, a hilt! So familiar in her hand, a lover’s touch almost, a sensation so entirely pleasant that she almost forgot about the severity of her situation; and the voice of an angel … _Beloved sister_.

She whirled the sword around and skewered her assailant breadthwise at the height of the navel. Almost at once his attacks diminished. She rolled him off her, then for good measure slashed his throat with her rapier. Only when he stopped gurgling up blood, Nunnally let herself fall back into her uneasy bed of blades and racks, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. _You need to get out of here without delay._

 _True,_ she replied and got to her feed, rubbing her back, _but not alone._ She got to work. The uniforms of the soldiers outside were stained beyond salvaging with drying blood, but that of the officer was stained only on the crimson collar. The blood was barely visible – yet, in less than an hour, she would be unable to fool anyone with it. At once she began to strip the quartermaster and exchange her own rags for his uniform. A reasonably fresh white shirt, a blue pair of trousers, long-sleeved waistcoat, and coat with crimson lining and piping, black boots, a golden gorget with an engraved eagle and a single golden epaulette on her right shoulder. Instead of the man’s sabre, she girdled herself with their ancient rapier. The clothes were too large for her, but that would serve well to disguise the very slight curve of her breasts. Using a strap of linen torn from her old rags, she tied her hair to a ponytail and hoped the bicorne she found in a corner of the armoury would complete her disguise. Nunnally resisted the urge to rip off the tricoloured cockade on the hat. She quickly scanned the weapons scattered in the chaos for something useful, then selected a stiletto and hid it in her left sleeve. Why would such a thing be in a military armoury, she wondered, then she realised that it had been in the same chest as their rapier. A weapon confiscated from one of her fellow prisoners, perhaps? She would need to find out about what had happened in Madrid these past few days. But first she had other matters to attend to. She adjusted her waistcoat.

So far, she had not yet been discovered.

It seemed quaint that she encountered no soldiers as she hurried back the way she had been led. Where was the garrison? She kept on her guard. _What are you doing?,_ Lelouch asked with some alarm. _Don’t tell me you’re planning on doing what I think you’re planning to do._

Her lips twitched. _As if you didn’t know it. Stop me if you want._ Her brother did not reply.

Nunnally realised that the corridor through which she had been lead had only two branches between the point she had last seen the other prisoner and the point he had been gone. She took the first, and soon came across what appeared to be a different part of the prison. The cells were packed, but not with the ragged creatures she had expected – indeed, many of them looked like wealthy bourgeois. Most warranted her with looks of unbridled hatred (clearly, the French uniform was working), one begged: “Please, señor! I have done nothing wrong! I have a wife and children!” She ignored him.

At the end of the corridor, she found the two soldiers who had led the other prisoner playing cards in the guardroom. She had her hand on her sword’s hilt, but the moment they saw her, the Frenchmen jumped to their feet and saluted. “Uh, _mon capitaine!_ We … we thought it unwise to, er, to leave the prisoners unguarded, that’s why we’re not …”

“Shut your mouth, man,” Nunnally snapped at him. Her French felt rusty, but she hoped she was still fluent enough in her mother’s tongue to not give pause to the soldiers. “Identify yourselves.”

“Yes, sir. _Voltigeur_ Alexandre Latour, __e Régiment de ligne, first battalion.”

“ _Voltigeur_ Ulysse Eure, __e Régiment de ligne, first battalion.”

“I’ll make a note of that. Anyway, I need a prisoner. Orders from the very top.”

“What, from the Grand Duke of Berg?”

It took her a moment to remember who that was. “Yes, from Marshal Murat. There’s a prisoner I’m supposed to get, a blacksmith seized yesterday. Turns out he’s a French subject on his mother’s side. He’s to have a trial.”

“Yes, sir. The name?”

“Kururugi.”

One of the soldiers consulted a ledger on the escritoire of the guardroom. “Is that Kururugi with a C or with a K, sir?”

“Damned if I know,” she snapped back. “I wasn’t given written orders. Just look under both C and K.”

Voltigeur Latour clearly didn’t like that, but discipline got the better of him. It took him near two minutes to find the name, leading her to suspect he could not read. At last, however, he said: “Kururugi, Suzaku. Number 25. That’s just around the corner. Ulysse, let’s go unlock for the captain. Please follow me, sir.”

The boy was in a cell that would have held ten with twenty other men. Eure stood at attention outside the grille, musket at the ready, while his comrade unlocked the cell. “Kururugi!,” he bellowed, “Get out of there if you’re still alive!”

Nunnally doubted that anyone in the cell understood a word of French, but the name alone sufficed to make some of them hope for freedom (or a quick death), so that six different men claimed to be Kururugi. She recognised him in the back, he had been the quietest of them. “I understand he is a young man with brown hair and green eyes,” Nunnally told the voltigeurs. She could have gone into more detail, she remembered her fellow prisoner’s face perfectly.

“That would be the lad at the back,” Eure concluded. Both soldiers had to hold the other prisoners at bay with their weapons while the boy fought his way out of the crowded cell.

“Are you Suzaku Kururugi?,” she asked him. The boy nodded. He did not seem to recognise her. The look in his emerald eyes was one of uncompromising solemnity, but without the hatred she had seen in other prisoners. She avoided his gaze and turned to the soldiers. “Lock up. I’ll be taking over the prisoner from here on. You can get back to your cards.”

Latour flushed red. “O...of course, sir. If you don’t mind, we need a receipt for the guard book.”

She rolled her eyes. “One could think this army runs on ink, not blood. Very well then. Forward march, prisoner.” To make her words understood, he shoved Kururugi forward. In the guardroom, the soldiers tied his hands while she wrote something about having received the prisoner Kururugi to conduct him to his court-martial, jotted down the current date (she had to ask: it was the third of May 1808) and scrawled something illegible for a signature. Then, she took her leave with the prisoner.

“Did you recognise that captain?,” she overheard one of the soldiers ask his comrade ask his comrade.

“Never seen him in my life. A queer one …”

“You sure we should have handed over the lad without written orders?”

“No. But orders are orders …”

Nunnally smirked. She gave a brisk pace, only to find herself having to catch up to the prisoner she led in front of her. With some luck, she found the way out of the fortress. The entrance was heavily guarded, but the soldiers saluted and let her pass without question, and soon they stood outside on the street in the blazing midday sun. After weeks of imprisonment, she had to close her eyes against the blinding light. Deeply she sucked in the fresh air, rich with the smells of the city. Gunpowder from the fortress behind her (exercises or executions?), spices, fish and meat from the markets, cheap brandy and wine from the pubs, the vapours of a thousand hearths, the perfume of the rich and the filth of the poor, and blood on the pavement. 

It took her a moment to gather herself sufficiently to lead Kururugi away from the fortress. She took no less than six turns until she was certain not to have been followed. In a dark, empty alley, they stopped. Kururugi seemed confused, but she put a finger on his lips before he could say anything. “Quiet,” she told him in Spanish and began to remove his binds. His eyes widened. “I am on your side. Do you want to live? Then do exactly as I say.”

“Why should I trust you? You’re a French officer …”

Nunnally removed her hat. “We’re in the same boat. Remember me?”

“You … you were at the execution …”

“Nunnally Lamperouge, at your service. Now let’s get going, there’s no time for chit-chat.” Briskly she marched away. They needed horses, and she needed less conspicuous clothes, not to mention supplies …

“W...wait!,” he caught up to her. “You’re a woman!”

She rolled her eyes. “My, you’re an observant one.”

“Uh, sorry. It’s just, you’re in uniform and your voice is rather deep.”

She grimaced. He had hit a soft spot there. As a girl, she had dreamed of becoming a singer, but over the years the cold of the mountains, tobacco and cheap brandywine had distorted her voice. As she was very well aware. “Why, thank you,” she snapped. “Anything you want to add?”

“Um … why … you could have saved everyone. We could have overpowered the soldiers, tie them up somewhere. All the others are going to be shot.”

Nunnally halted in the shadow of a corner. They had reached a main street. A French patrol of twelve men crossed their path. She frowned. What had happened the day before? “Too dangerous. I’m stretching my luck far enough with you alone.”

The patrol having passed, she stepped out on the street, but Kururugi grasped her wrist. “Why me, then? Why would you save me?”

Nunnally glared at him. “Indeed, I am beginning to doubt my decision. You have been nothing but a nuisance to me. Bear in mind that I just saved you from certain death. You owe me your life, _boy_. And while I’m at it, do _not_ touch me again, or there will be no third time. Is that clear?”

Almost instantly the boy let go off her. Looking sheepish, he avoided her gaze. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Good. Follow me.” She led him across the street and into another maze of alleys without knowing where exactly they were. She had never been to Madrid before Ogi, camping east of the capital, had sent her to buy several items – medicine, maps, weapons, the type of thing you didn’t find outside cities – and find out about French troop dispositions.

The French, of course, had been in Spain for almost half a year. An army under General Junot had first crossed the country to invade and occupy Portugal, England’s ancient ally, without resistance, in November 1807. But everyone knew that they had also taken a vivid interest in the army, infrastructure and fortifications of their Spanish allies. When tensions had erupted between the inept cuckold king, Charles IV, and his son, the Prince of Asturias Ferdinand, and they called upon the Corsican ogre to mediate between them at Bayonne, Bonaparte had used the opportunity to seize the fortresses and cities of Northern Spain in a rapid succession of _coups de main_. Since February then, Spain had been under French occupation.

“They mentioned an uprising? What happened there?”

“What … how can’t you know? The city was at war yesterday!”

“I was a bit preoccupied.”

“Um … oh. Oh, I see. Well … it was pretty sudden, you know? And I wasn’t really a part of it, I just got caught up in the fighting. As far as I know, the whole thing started because of a rumour that Murat was sending the Queen of Etruria and Infante Francisco to Bayonne – the last royals remaining in the country. A crowd formed before the palace to keep them from leaving, and, well, you know how it is – the French fired grapeshot into the crowd, and all of a sudden the city explodes. The whole thing ended when their heavy guard cavalry charged near the Gate of the Sun. Over the next few hours, they took control of the city. They caught me in the evening, my master had sent me to deliver something … I wasn’t aware of the curfew and I didn’t realise my hammer would get me arrested. That’s all I know.”

Very briefly, she smirked. “Of course it is.” She looked around and had to admit she was lost. “We need to get horses. You know a stable nearby?”

“What, are we leaving the city? Wouldn’t it be simpler to lie low in the city for a while? There’ll be guards at the gates.”

“Answer the question.”

“Alright, alright! I … I don’t know, I think there should be someone selling horses near the church of St. Ildefonso …”

Kururugi’s guess turned out to be correct. _He may be a nuisance, but I’d be lost here without him._ After army requisitions, only three mares remained in the stable, two light chestnut and one bay, all of them looking malnourished and moderately diseased. Even though it was bright day, the boxes were locked, and the owner nowhere in sight. Nunnally knocked at the next door until someone opened. The old man threw one look at her uniform and paled. “I’ve done nothing wrong!,” he pleaded, “You’ve got the wrong man, sir!”

“Calm yourself,” she replied in Spanish. “Are you the owner of that stable?”

“Ah … yes, but I’ve …”

“We need your fastest two horses saddled and bridled in five minutes.”

The man’s face lost what little colour remained in it. “But … _Monsieur_ officer, you have already taken all my best horses from me for your artillery … if you take those I have left, I will be destitute! Please, sir, I have a family to provide for, we depend on the foals my mares will bear this year!”

“That is none of my concern,” she said, grabbed the man’s arm and drew him outside. He barely resisted. “In the name of the Emperor, we are going to requisition two of your horses. Don’t worry, you will be appropriately recompensed.” A light shove lent urgency to her words, and the stablekeeper hastened lead the bay and one of the chestnut horses out of their boxes.

“You won’t be happy with these horses, no you won’t, sir,” he insisted while saddling the bay. “They’re old and weak, that’s why they left them to me. Too old for long marches, let alone hunting. Won’t do you much good on the battlefield either, they haven’t been trained for all the noise – let me give you the address of a colleague of mine who’ll be happy to give you much better steeds …”

She told him to shut up and work faster. Since Kururugi didn’t look too helpful, she had to keep an eye on the street. A man in a blue coat passed by – her hand shot to her sword, then she realised he was a civilian. _Relax,_ Lelouch told her, _there is no need to be so upset. We’ll be fine._

At long last the horses were ready. With shaking hands the old man lead their mounts out of the boxes. “Please, sir,” he pleaded one last time, “do not take my livelihood from me.”

She ignored his objections. “Be proud, citizen, you have done a service to the nation. Get on the horse, boy.”

“B...but … my money! You said I would be recompensed!”

“Yes.” She let the stiletto slip out from her sleeve, grasped it it, darted forth and before the old man could even react she had stabbed him in the heart four or five times. “Recompensed as a traitor to his country deserves.”

The old man’s death throes mixed with the horses’ panicked whinnying and Kururugi’s outcry. Nunnally wiped the blood and gore off the stiletto with a sleeve of the traitor’s shirt, then hid it in her boot and mounted the bay. “You … you murdered him! You murdered him!,” the smith stammered. 

“True,” she replied. “Now _get on your bloody horse_ before the patrol finds us here or I swear you are next!” Once again she laid hand on the rapier’s hilt. After a moment of hesitation, the boy mounted. He was pale as snow, his eyes wide with shock. _One should think he’s seen blood before_ , Lelouch mocked him. She did not listen. “Can you ride a horse?”

“I … I think so …”

“Then let’s be off.” She spurred the bay into a gentle trot. The boy sat in the saddle like a sack of flour and could barely keep up. “His death was necessary,” she explained on the way, not knowing why she bothered. “He would have ratted us out. Beside, he was a traitor, a collaborator.”

“Ratted us out to whom?! We’ll be gone before they even start looking for us, and besides how was he supposed to know anything?!”

“It’s better to be save. And anyway …”

“But not at the price of _murdering_ an innocent old man!”

“… did _you_ want to pay for the horses? … Thought so.”

“You’re _insane._ Insane and _mad_ and _evil_.”

“Shut up. There’s guards at the gate ahead.” Madrid had no real fortifications any more, and the “gate” was more of a decorative arch. Still, the nominal border of the city was guarded by a handful of French soldiers. To her delight, they were not very attentive; saluted her and let them pass without question when she explained that Kururugi was with her. After that, they rode out of Madrid without further incident. They spoke very little – her companion was still in shock, and Nunnally found herself wondering whether it had been worth it. 

_It had to be done_ , Lelouch assured her, but for once his words sounded hollow.

 

 

Ogi had promised he would wait until she returned – they had found a large cavern halfway between Madrid and Cuenca, large enough to accommodate their whole band, yet close enough to several major roads to keep up business. Nunnally and Kururugi arrived there at dusk. It was quieter than she would have expected. They dismounted in front of the cavern. A sudden breeze let warm sunlight shine through the dense foliage, illuminating the remains of a large campfire. “Hello?,” she shouted, “Ogi? Sugiyama? Tamaki? Anyone there?” There was no reply.

“You sure your friends didn’t abandon you to die?,” Kururugi asked, no, sneered. “If I didn’t owe you my life …”

She paid no heed to him and entered the cavern. It was devoid of life, with only a few hints of previous habitation – spoiled food, scratchings on the walls, beds of leaves and grass – proving that she was in the right place. Nunnally ground her teeth. What had happened? Had they been captured, or driven from here? Something caught her eye – a folded piece of paper, pinned down by a rock. She knelt down and opened it. The handwriting was near illegible, the spelling and grammar rife with mistakes. _Nunnally – we’ve left for the region near Zaragoza. Ogi says to give up on you, that you won’t return. I couldn’t get him to wait any longer. Tamaki._

For a moment it was as though the air had been knocked out of her. Her vision was blurred, her hands shaking. _They have betrayed us_ , Lelouch expressed, just as shocked as she was. _Ogi has … betrayed us …_

When she rose, her whole body was shaking with tranquil fury. “Get back on your horse,” she shouted to her unwilling companion, “we’re riding to Zaragoza.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I refer to Wikipedia's article on the Dos de Mayo Uprising for a fairly comprehensive coverage of the events and causes of 2 May 1808.
> 
> Leve-toi: Get up!
> 
> Formez un ligne!: Form a line!
> 
> Presentez armes! Prês, à mon commandement!: Present arms! Ready, at my command!
> 
> Carporal: Corporal
> 
> Les Grand Chapeaux: "The Big Hats," Grande Armée slang for Napoleon and his marshals
> 
> Vive l'Empereur: Long live the Emperor!
> 
> Mon capitaine: my captain. In the French army, officers (but not NCOs) are addressed as "my (rank)". Not applicable in the French Navy.
> 
> Voltigeur: "Vaulter", originally intended to be soldiers moving quickly across the battlefield by jumping on horses behind cavalrymen. When that proved unworkable, reformed into skirmishers. Every line and light regiment in the French army had two elite companies, the heavy grenadiers (the tallest men) and the light skirmishing voltigeurs (the best shots, but usually the shortest men due to a British-induced shortage in saltpetre making practice shots impracticable). In battle, these would be detached from the line in loose skirmishing order to take out officers and harass the enemy by actually taking the time to aim.
> 
> Ulysse Eure = Ulysses eu Britannia
> 
> Alexandre Latour = Alexander la Britannia
> 
> Please leave a review :)


	2. The Field of Honour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have been finished weeks, no, months earlier than it was. I can honestly not say what has kept me from work (certainly not Uni, I'm a first-year historian after all), but almost all of my last week has been taken up by the Mass Effect trilogy, then Mass Effect fanfiction (FemShepxGarrus! Squee!). In other news, I've received a 720 Pound research scholarship for this summer, when I'll be working on German reactions to the Hundred Days in Berlin. Before that, my Easter holiday starts in a week, and I'm working on a sequel to my Borgias oneshot "Born in the Wrong Century" partially based on Wagner's Rienzi. Fun times, fun times.
> 
> This chapter goes to Lelouch, next will be Cecilia, and onwards in the usual order.

**The Field of Honour**

 

_London, May 1808_

 

For a moment, he was blinded as the sword’s blade caught a ray of sunlight.

“Raaaargh!”

Junior Major Lelouch Lamperouge turned at the last second and let his opponent’s sword-tip push into empty space. Panting, the man drew back and began to circle around him. Now with the sun in his back, Lelouch closely watched him, sword loosely en garde. They had been at it for just under half an hour. He had yet to attack, and he had yet to break a sweat. In fact, it was rather chilly to be standing around Putney Heath in one’s shirtsleeves. But not for a moment did he take his eyes off his opponent. By now, the man’s shirt was damp with sweat, his hair in disarray. The tip of his sabre, extended above his head, was shaking.

He paid more attention, however, to his opponent’s eyes, ignoring the age-old dictum of the fencing masters to focus on the sword. Whereas they had been calculating and focused at the beginning of the combat, now they were wide and frenzied. Lelouch knew, in point of fact, that his vision was distorted by sweat and exhaustion, and of course by the tranquil fury the man made no attempt at hiding. “Do not use me so, but fight me properly!,” he had shouted out five minutes or so into the fight, to the murmured agreement of his peers, but now he simply did not have the strength to speak.

Once again again he attacked, made an excellent feint over Lelouch’s head, then threatened to hit him with the backblade, but Lelouch had seen it coming before the other man had even moved. His problem was, plainly, that he was too good a swordsman – every movement had method and reason in it, and every movement was _planned_. Every less than reflexive glance a hint, nay, a vision. There – quite obvious, in fact, the enemy ever so slightly moved his foot, shifted his weight, within fragments of a second he would execute a flèche against Lelouch’s left, leaving his own left wide open. Lelouch estimated his chances and formulated a plan that was equally risky and difficult, but also just sufficiently showy – and not a moment to late, he evaded the flèche by darting past the extended sabre, or rather, falling. He didn’t quite have the finesse for keep his balance. In falling, however, he turned, and narrowly slashed his opponent’s side.

Then they both collapsed on the grass. Within seconds, the bystanders had c around the men. Lelouch was helped to his feet. Someone slapped his shoulder in what he assumed was supposed to be a congratulatory gesture, Major Darlton of the First Battalion, judging from the weight and power of the hand. “Well done, well done indeed! You showed those oafs from the 20th!” Lelouch thinly smiled and quickly wiped the thin coating of blood and gore off his sabre. Rolo handed him his jacket – short-tailed, deep blue with scarlet lapels, which he buttoned up single-breasted and turned outside at the top, gold piping, a bullion fringed epaulette on each shoulder – the crimson officer’s sash which he slung around his waist and the whitened sword belt and steel scabbard worn above it. He straightened his collar.

“Major Lamperouge.” One of the officers from the rival regiment stepped up to him. “I’m afraid Major Flaherty will not be able to continue today.”

He had expected as much. The wound would not be lethal, but he would be in need of immediate medical attention. “Thank you. I advise you bring the major to the nearest hospital. Try Chelsea.”

“Of course,” the officer from the 20th Light Dragoons said, stone-faced, “it was our pleasure. We hope to meet you gentlemen again on the field of honour before the campaign begins.”

The rival officers left in a hackney, and after enduring a series of handshakes, congratulations and bad jokes, Lelouch and Rolo also excused themselves and left the park. To economise, they did not own a carriage between them, keeping horses instead, but for once Lelouch wished for the comfort a cab would provide. “Do you know what this actually was about?,” Rolo asked him as they crossed the river on Battersea Bridge.

Lelouch only shrugged. The rivalry between the __th and the 20th Light Dragoons had already existed long before he had joined the regiment nearly fifteen years ago. It had never kept them from working together on campaign, but whenever they were garrisoned near each other due to some oversight on the part of the War Department, regimental honour demanded that blood was shed. “Damned if I know. Some petty injury from fifty, sixty years ago, no doubt. Still, our honour demanded that we respond to the challenge. As the regimental fencing master, that was my duty.” Honour, unfortunately, was not all that was at stake, but he was not going to tell that to his friend. Suffice it to say that he had bet a considerable sum on himself.

“First time I’ve heard you call yourself that.”

“That’s what Calares called me when he told me about the challenge. To be fair, I’ve got more duelling experience than anyone else, with the exception of Lucius Bradley. And we don’t want Lucius fighting our duels.”

“True, can you imagine? Police were right there on Putney Heath keeping an eye on us. Would have been a fine mess if Bradley had fought again. God, I still see all the blood before me … In any case, I’m glad you decided not to fight Flaherty.”

Lelouch frowned. “I did fight him, though. I simply knew that he was faster, stronger, more agile than I am, in a word, a better swordsman – and that I would not stand a chance in a normal fight. Why, do you have a better idea?”

Rolo laughed. “And here I was hoping you had learned your lesson from that affair in Bergen.”

“Come, come, let’s not speak of this again … the enemy was still half an hour’s march away, and it’s not as if I had _planned_ the bit with the clogs and the vipers.”

“Well, you did quite put us in fear of our lives …”

They crossed the Mall at Piccadilly. A thick fog lay over the promenade, even though noon was fast approaching. The brief moment of morning sun that had graced the end of his fight was already gone. The second battalion of the 1st Life Guards were patrolling in tight formation and with naked swords around St. James’ Park, Lelouch and Rolo saluted by tip of their head. “Say,” Rolo asked, “you got any plans for tonight?”

He had to think for a moment. “Yes, actually. Joseph Fenette is celebrating the opening of a new factory, in Leeds, I believe. I’m invited. You want to come?”

“Is Lady Asplund going to be there?”

“I would be surprised if she weren’t, her husband is the chief engineer, after all.”

“Then you’ll excuse me. That girl irritates me. Beside, I’ve agreed at last to join Alfred and David Darlton at the Surrey tonight for the new comedy by Keanrick and Mossop.”

“What’s it called?”

“ _The Bloody Murder of Foul Prince Romero and His Enormously Bosomed Wife._ No, seriously.”

Lelouch had to laugh. “You better hope their uncle doesn’t find out.” As he said it, the two officers rode into Berkeley Square.

Their house was small compared to those which neighboured it: a narrow, three stories townhouse with a white façade with black door and window frames behind a wrought-iron fence. There was a small stable at the back. Upon their arrival in London fourteen years ago, Rolo had spent what little remained of the proceeds of selling his Venetian palace on the house, but they had ended up having to take a loan as well. Normally, a major’s salaries of 19 shillings and threepence per diem would easily have supported a respectable household of three, and they were a major and a captain sharing many expenses, but the lifestyle that was expected of an officer in His Majesty’s cavalry cut a deep swathe into their purses. Horses and remounts, fine uniforms and gold braid, gambling and parties at the mess …

They stabled their horses and went inside. There was some slight noise from the kitchen at the back of the ground floor and the smell of food lay in the air – stew and fresh bread, he guessed, the servants were having lunch. They kept only three – a valet for each of them and a maidservant to cook and clean. At the beginning, Rolo had complained about this arrangement, but three servants was still three more than Lelouch had ever had up to that point. His friend called for a small lunch to be brought to the library for them.

“So,” Rolo asked as they sat in the pair of armchairs by the window, “you’ll be leaving for Yorkshire tonight?”

“Pardon?”

“You know, the Leeds thing. Mr Fenette’s new factory.”

He laughed. “Not unless Chelsea is now part of Yorkshire. Mr Fenette went to inspect the place last week, but he’s back in London now to celebrate. It’s the Season, after all.”

“Not for us, if I may remind you …”

Lelouch rolled his eyes. _Not this again_. “Alright, so we have been on leave for a year now. So, what? Do you want to sit around in Hertfordshire with the troopers all summer where you’re no damn use to anyone? Beside, name one officer from the regiment who hasn’t taken leave.”

“We’re at war, Lelouch.”

“What kind of war is this, when others do the fighting – or worse, when no one fights? Our allies on the continent have forsaken us, _again_ , and what does England do? Blockade French ports and bombard the capitals of neutral powers. That hardly makes a war. You know there is no one who wants a new campaign more than myself.”

“Even so, we have a responsibility. The other officers may be in the city, but the troopers are in garrison at the depot. It is our duty, as their officers, to supervise and lead them – and ensure they are prepared for whatever task the gentlemen at Horse Guards may throw at us. Almost all of them are untried. The least we can do is try and teach them some discipline … if you socialised with our peers more, you’d know the rumours on everyone’s lips. Holland, Germany, Sicily, Spain … no one knows where, but everyone is certain that we’ll be landing somewhere on the continent within the year.”

Rolo’s valet brought tea, bread, biscuits and cold meats from last night’s supper. “Is that so?,” Lelouch mused. Then, he leaned back in his armchair, folded his hands and smirked. “I bet you a guinea that before the end of the week, I will know where we’re headed.”

 

 

Joseph Fenette greeted him in the entrance hall. His handshake was firm as ever, and two-handed. “Major Lamperouge, how good to have you here! Always such a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine, sir. My congratulations on your success in Leeds.”

The industrialist laughed. “Thank you, but I fear Lord Asplund is the one you ought to congratulate. Without his new spinning machines, this would never have worked. Ah, please excuse me, I need to welcome Captain Scovell …”

Lelouch turned to identify the captain, somewhat curious. He had not heard the name before, though he thought himself close to the Fenettes. However before he could spy a uniform in the small crowd, the lady of the house stood before him.

Shirley Fenette was tall for her tender age, standing just a few inches short of Lelouch. Her modest white evening dress was hemmed with floral designs, and her gloves fingers were nervously playing with the ends of her emerald stole. A faint smile played around her lips, and bright green eyes shyly avoided his gaze. Her light red hair, burnt copper, was done up in fashionable curls, but nevertheless collided somewhat ungainly with the intense blush on her face. Lelouch smirked. He let her stammer for a moment before saving her. “Ms Fenette, how come you look more dazzling every time I see you?” Her blush only deepened as she murmured something incomprehensible. Lelouch took her arm. “Welcome home,” he warmly said. He enjoyed toying with her, but that was no reason not to be courteous. “I understand this was your last year at school. It will be good to have you with us in the city for the entire Season.”

“Thank you, sir … my father wants me to make my début at court this year.”

She was trying to tell him something, Lelouch could tell from her eyes. Her meaning, however, escaped him. He had never been good at this – he could predict a man’s movement from the look in his eyes, but to discern a hint from a meaningful gaze was beyond him. He had, however, found that people rarely minded a non-committing reply, so that he said: “My congratulations. Twenty is a good age for a young lady to enter society. I am certain you will outshine all of the other débutantes. Say …” He was rudely interrupted by a perky girl around Shirley’s age who thrust herself between them and took both their arms. Lelouch did not need to see her face to know who it might be.

“My, my, if that isn’t Major Lamperouge,” Lady Millicent Asplund said by way of introduction. “Good to have you with us. I don’t see Major Haliburton with you?”

“Rolo begs to be excused. He had already made plans for the evening.” God knew Rolo wasn’t the only one whom prolonged exposure to young Lady Asplund gave a headache.

“Why, that’s a pity.” Turning to Shirley, she added, a sly grin on her face: “Don’t you worry though, little butterfly, you’ll be perfectly safe in the company of such a strong and dashing officer as Major Lamperouge here. He is quite dashing, isn’t he – don’t you try to deny it. And so dangerous, what with all these duels – must be the Spanish heat that embroils the blood, or perhaps an English maiden’s love? Oh, you should be a hussar, major, that uniform would suit you. Their trousers are _quite_ a bit tighter, too. Though I would bet that he has nothing on Boney’shussars …”

Lelouch was trying his hardest to avoid laughing out loud, but Shirley – whose face had turned a worrying shade of scarlet – gasped. “M-Milly! You shouldn’t say such things!”

Lady Asplund rolled her eyes. “What, it’s true! Everyone knows that our own hussars appear dreadfully drab and timid next to theirs. They are the most handsome men in Europe. No offence to you, sir – you are a fine gentleman, as Shirley and any young girl in London will gladly attest to you, and I would all the cavaliers that guard us were half as gallant and comely as you are. But I fear that Captain Scovell over there is closer to the actual image of the British officer of our days …”

Lelouch followed her pointed glance. There, indeed, he saw a redcoat conversing with Mr Fenette. How had he missed him before? A closer look gave the answer, there was absolutely nothing memorable about the man’s features. He was bit older than him, 34 or 35, and still wore a mere captain’s rank insignia on his coat – red with yellow facings, one of the most common combinations in the army. The hair above his round, benign face was already beginning to recede, and he had overcompensated by growing his sideburns thick and wide, covering most of his cheeks with ginger-brown thatch. Thin spectacles obscured deep blue eyes. Lelouch had already lost all interest in the man.

To be a captain still in one’s mid-thirties – Lelouch shuddered at the thought. Most officers made the promotion by seniority to major at thirty (Lelouch had made it at 28 and Rolo had followed the year after) and were lieutenant-colonels at 35. Additionally, by purchase of commissions, a wealthy ensign could become lieutenant-colonel within six years without ever seeing active service, but even through regular promotions and merit … himself, of course, had had to work for his rank, had to watch his peers be promoted ahead of him as they merrily bought one commission after the other. He was more competent than any of the young men fresh from Eton who had taken the places rightfully his … No matter. Perfect courtesy was expected of an English officer, and he would be perfectly courteous, especially since Mr Fenette was now leading the captain towards them.

“Ah, major. I don’t believe you’ve been introduced yet? If you please, this is Captain George Scovell, a friend from the club. Captain, Major Lelouch Lamperouge.”

They exchanged a quick salute (Scovell’s was more accurate than any Lelouch had given to anyone below general rank these last seven years). “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir. Mr Fenette has nothing but praise for you. __th Light Dragoons, I believe? I was with the 4th Dragoons myself until last year.”

That wasn’t all that surprising – life as a cavalry officer was expensive, moreso with the heavies. Lelouch didn’t even want to think of the costs of maintaining one or multiple heavy mounts. “Indeed. Who do you serve with these days?”

“The 57th Foot. Though I’m mostly detached as DAQMG, we’re all quite busy at Horse Guards right now.”

“Pardon,” Shirley asked, “what’s DAQMG for?”

“Deputy Assistant Quartermaster General,” Lelouch explained, his suspicions proven correct. “The Quartermaster General and his staff are responsible for the logistics of the forces. I think we’d both be surprised at the sheer amount of food, drink, fodder and ammunition an army requires every day.” Not even assistant quartermaster – deputy to the assistant! Still, the bit about being ‘busy’ sounded intriguing. The rumours of a new campaign were of immediate concern to him, after all – not to mention his new-found monetary interest in the matter. Before he could ask, however, a bell was rung to call the guests to supper. Shirley, as the lady of the house, went in first with Lady Asplund, followed by the gentlemen led by Lord Asplund as the highest-ranking guest.

The table was set with china and silver and a large porcelain centrepiece representing Apollo and the Muses, an obvious allegory for the origin of the household’s wealth. As there were only five of them, there was not much in the way of formality: Lord Asplund was seated to the host’s right and his wife beside him, opposite Shirley and Lelouch, and Captain Scovell at the table’s end opposite Mr Fenette. He was asked to propose a first toast – “Ladies and gentlemen, the King!”

“The King!,” the others responded.

“Thank you, major,” Mr Fenette said. “I, too, would like to propose a toast – several, in fact, so bear with me. Firstly, to my dear friend and partner Sir William Roche, who could not be with us today, but without whom this would never have been possible. After that, I would like to express my deepest thanks to my lord Asplund, whose expertise, inventiveness and perseverance are a credit and a benefit to our country. May he remain long among us.”

“Well I certainly have no intention of dying any time soon! Why, in a few more years, we may well overcome death entirely!”

“Of course, of course. And finally, to my wonderful daughter, my only child, who has supported me without fail and tolerated my countless trips to Leeds and my constant preoccupation without complaint. A toast for my English rose: cheers!”

“Cheers!”

“And now, let us eat.” Mr Fenette began to cut the roast beef as the guests began to serve themselves. The first course consisted of a soup of green peas, chicken pies, mutton cutlets, roast beef with cauliflowers and new potatoes, veal tenderloin with peas, minced lamb’s head and crimped trout. The wine was an excellent Bordeaux of rather recent vintage, to Lelouch’s slight envy – he was not much of a sommelier, but the sheer fact that the Fenettes, upstart plebeians, could afford smuggled table wine of this quality gave rise to jealousy and an all too familiar sense of inferiority. It was a trifling matter, he reminded himself without losing his smile, but it was one more pebble on the ever-growing mountain seething inside him.

Lord Asplund immediately tried to return to the topic of his steam cart. His wife rolled her eyes at him and turned to Lelouch. “So,” she asked, “how long, do you think, you will remain with us?”

He gave her a smile. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I have no intention of leaving any time soon.”

“Oh, come on, sir, everyone is already talking about it. There is going to be a new campaign this summer, isn’t there? An expedition to the continent. Come on, you can tell us …”

“I assure you that I have no knowledge of any plans to land in Europe. Captain Scovell, though … might know more …”

“True, true,” said Lady Asplund, a sly grin appearing on her face. Clearly, she was looking forward to grilling the meek captain for state secrets, just for the hell of it. Well, Lelouch would certainly not stand in her way. “You have certainly been involved in the planning of the campaign, sir. Care to give us a hint?”

Scovell responded without hesitation. “I’m sorry, my lady. I am not authorised to relate any information regarding my work without orders. Knowledge is strictly need-to-know only.”

While Lady Ashford pouted, Lelouch thought he saw a chance. “Colonels upwards, yes?,” he asked as if to reassure himself.

“Involved generals only so far, the officers on the staff, the Privy Council and the Admiralty. As I said, we’re trying not to let anything slip.” Well, too bad – Scovell had just implicitly confirmed that there was going to be a campaign, and that it would not begin until summer. Milly had realised that as well and shot him a brief, feline grin. To his side, Shirley was intently listening.

“One does wonder where it might go,” Lelouch said. “After that stunt we pulled at Copenhagen last year, we have overwhelming control of the seas, so all of the continent is open to us. Actually, we might just go one step further and send another exhibition to Spanish South America. Making a British protectorate of the Rio de la Plata is as tempting an idea as ever, and a third expedition must learn from the mistakes of the first and second. Considering the news from Iberia, there might actually be some hope of gaining the local authorities’ support.”

By now the discussion had gained the attention even of Lord Asplund and Mr Fenette, who said: “True, true, our trade would benefit from having access to the port of Buenos Aires. Still, what point is there in reaching for America in a risky expedition we cannot properly supply? I’m no soldier, of course, but shouldn’t we rather fight Bonaparte on the continent?”

“We must play to our strengths, sir,” Lady Asplund reminded him. “Our allies – Austria, Prussia, Russia – are out on the sidelines licking their wounds after the thrashing Bonaparte gave them the last two years. I mean, how many men can England field these days?”

“Worldwide?” Scovell had to think. “Excluding militia, around 190,000 men, plus 37,000 colonials and legionnaires. That said, more than half of the regular army is deployed overseas. We’ve got an army of 23,000 in the East Indies alone to support the Company. We could probably field a force of twenty to fifty thousand without compromising too much on the defence of the British Isles.”

“But that’s quite a lot!,” Shirley exclaimed.

Lelouch had to chuckle. “Fifty thousand is the same size as a single one of Bonaparte’s corps. At any given time, he can field six or seven of them, plus one corps of Imperial Guard the same size.”

“Oh …” She seemed so worried that Lelouch felt the need to reassure her.

“Don’t worry, miss,” he claimed with a smile, “Everyone one of our lads is worth three of theirs.” From the corner of his eye he could see Lady Asplund trying hard not to laugh, but judging from the blush on Shirley’s face and the eager look in her eyes, she believed him.

“In any case,” Scovell said, “I believe I am permitted to assure you that there are currently no plans being made for an invasion of Spain, or any other part of the European continent, at least not to my knowledge. That is all I can tell you.”

“Spain is not the only part of the Iberian Peninsula that is revolting against the French,” Lelouch pointed out. Scovell winced, and he smirked.

“I … I am not at liberty to discuss this matter any further. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Now, now, Major,” Mr Fenette intervened, “we don’t want to get Captain Scovell in trouble, do we.”

Lelouch’s smile widened. “Of course not. Forgive my thoughtlessness.” Rolo owed him a guinea. The conversation quickly moved to less sensitive matters. Soon afterwards, the second course was served (roast duckling, shellfish, cherry tarts, French beans a la crème, roast sweetbread, jelly and blancmange, roast lamb neck with green peas, creamed codling tarts, plovers eggs and roast pigeons) and at last the tablecloth was removed and dessert served (cheeses and fresh fruit). The entire time, Lelouch had thought about how to get some firm information from Scovell, but in the end it was Shirley who raised the topic again. The project of a resumption of fighting seemed to make her anxious, though Lelouch could not tell why.

“But is it true, then, sir? Major Lamperouge will go on campaign soon?”

Scovell sighed. “I am sorry, miss, but I have already said far too much tonight. And even if I could tell you, I would not know anything. It is still too early in planning to firmly say which units, if any, will be deployed. You said you’re with the __th, sir? Cavalry is in short supply, true, but that doesn’t mean you’ll necessarily go into the field.”

Lelouch smiled. “Don’t bother, sir, I would not at all mind joining an expedition to the continent. It’s been too long since I had the chance to strike a blow at the French.”

With an anxious gasp, Shirley exclaimed, “But you might die!”

He gave a nonchalant shrug. The truth was, of course, that he cared very little for dying. He still had ambitious goals to reach, ancient slights to avenge, unworthy enemies to surpass. Oh, and half-forgotten vows to fulfil. Now that was a formidable enemy his oh-so-foolish younger self had burdened him with. It had been born of the moment, but he knew that Nunnally would not have wanted it. Likely, had their positions been reversed, she would have forgiven his murderers. “Better men than I have died in this fight,” he claimed without being entirely convinced of his words’ veracity, “Danger comes with the occupation.” Noting the fearful expression on Shirley’s face, he added: “Don’t worry, though, I shall be careful.”

Shirley did not seem all that appeased. He took a sip of his wine, watching her from the corner of his eye as her friend Lady Asplund drew her into conversation. Again his thoughts moved to the future. She was pretty, no doubt about that, genial and gentle, and tolerably smart. The only blemish was her status: despite the economic changes England had experienced in the past decades, when it came down to it, she was a fabricant’s – and thus an artisan’s daughter, a bourgeois. Though he had all but forgotten his father and the crumbling estate he had grown up on, and his mother’s family had fallen to the guillotine in the first years of the Revolution, his upbringing and the company he kept had left him with a sense of _noblesse oblige_ – a poor man’s substitute for _principles_ , but better than nothing. To marry the daughter of a common artisan …

He glanced at his wine glass, another French import, excellent vintage and very clearly expensive; glanced at the elegant tableware and the paintings on the wall. All of far higher quality than he had ever owned. Shirley’s dowry alone would pay for his commission all the way up to Lieutenant-Colonel, and then support a household for years to come. The sheer thought went against everything he had been raised to believe, but it was tempting nonetheless. And was made all the more appealing by Shirley Fenette’s own person’s numerous qualities. Truth was, she reminded him of Nunnally in many respects, tamer, perhaps, but possessed of the same natural geniality and tenderness.

Still, whenever he thought of a possible future with Shirley Fenette, he caught himself wistfully thinking of Cecilia. Status or wealth had not mattered with her, and he would have married her in a heart-beat. There had been a savage, burning passion between them that he had never felt with any of the handful of other women he had been with since. Had she not betrayed him, he would have married her in a heartbeat. Rolo, who rarely mentioned her, might think him over her, but in truth he was still sore about her betrayal. To think that she had only been toying with him, and he had not seen it … _It’s been fifteen years, you fool. Move on, or she has won._ At least he had learned from the past, he thought. Others might call him paranoid and scheming, but he was not going to be outmanoeuvred like this again.

Mr Fenette’s timely intervention changed the topic away from the war and to more agreeable matters. Soon, the ladies retired, and the gentlemen spent another hour listening to Lord Asplund explain the improvements he had made to Trevithick’s steam engine design over glasses of Cognac. When they left the Fenettes’, it was raining. _Just about the only thing I hate about this country._ As the footman helped him into a light overcoat, Lelouch had another chance to exchange a few words with Captain Scovell. “I understand you are not at liberty to tell,” he said, “but there’s still a question I’d like to ask.”

Scovell gave a weary smile. He looked more like a shopkeeper now than a soldier. “I have already given away so much that one more detail will hardly matter. You certainly took me to the task, sir. Do I have your word of honour that anything I told you tonight will remain strictly confidential?”

“Of course. I know what is at stake.”

“Better than nothing, I suppose. Then ask what you have to ask.”

“This is an expedition deep into occupied enemy territory, without any support from her continental allies. I cannot think of a single general who would dare such a feat and get away with it. Who will be the general-in-chief? His Highness the Duke of York?”

Scovell looked around in the entry hall, clearly uncomfortable. A footman handed him his cane and hat. Once the servant had retreated a few steps, Scovell leant in and quietly said: “The War Office wants to send Wellesley.”

Lelouch could not help but blanch. “But the man’s a mere sepoy general!,” he involuntarily exclaimed. Then he caught himself. “He’s only fought Hindoos and a handful of Danes so far,” he hissed. “What on Earth does the Government expect him to do against Bonaparte’s marshals?”

The captain shrugged, then smiled. “Watch yourself, sir. I daresay Wellesley may yet end up surprising all of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Lelouch and Darlton are both majors in the same regiment. Darlton, as major of the first battalion, is senior major, and Lelouch as major of the second is junior major. Those are technically different ranks, but receive the same pay, fulfil identical roles and have the same insignia. Rolo is Captain of the first squadron of the second battalion. The second is commanded by Cpt. Lucius Bradley. I will flesh out the command structure of the _th Light Dragoons further in Lelouch's next chapter.
> 
> 2) Putney Heath, in modern-day Wimbledon, was a popular duelling area in the late 18th and early 19th century.
> 
> 3) Lelouch's uniform looks more or less like this: goo.gl/UYGeS6 Here are some ideas as to the cut of items, note the central figure and the illustrations at the centre bottom, but remember that the Light Cavalry wore blue coats. goo.gl/eTZ6SU Lelouch is armed with the 1796 Pattern Light Cavalry Sabre, a viciously effective weapon.
> 
> 4) Long-standing rivalries between regiments and regimental "fencing-masters" who represented their unit in duels were a thing, even more so in the French army.
> 
> 5) All credit goes to Blackadder for Rolo's evening entertainment.
> 
> 6) Few officers stayed with their regiments during "peace" time, especially in the cavalry. Leave was easily granted, often for several months in advance.
> 
> 7) Milly and Shirley are both 20 years old, born in 1788, and are thus 13 years younger than Lelouch and ten years younger than Rolo. Milly married relatively early, contrary to popular opinion, Regency women actually married later than today in most cases.
> 
> 8) George Scovell is a historical figure who will make quite an impact on the story. I recommend Mark Urban, "The Man Who Broke Napoleon's Codes. The Story of George Scovell," London, 2001, for a non-scholarly biography.
> 
> 9) Purchase of commissions continued to be a perfectly normal practice throughout most of Europe and the US into the 20th century. The idea was to ensure that officers were men of quality. The British Army was somewhat exceptional in that the periods in which one had to actually serve in the rank one had purchased before taking the next steps were considerably longer than on the continent, and that promotion in the artillery, navy and above the rank of lieutenant-colonel was purely by seniority.
> 
> 10) Regency dinner parties were quite formalised. The ladies proceeded first into the room, led by the hostess, then followed by the gentlemen in hierarchical order. Usually, two courses were served, each consisting of numerous dishes, two or three of which a guest was expected to taste of. Complex rules surrounded refilling one's glass, and under no circumstances was it permitted to rise from the table. After the last course, the table was cleared and the tablecloth removed and a usually light dessert served that was not considered part of the actual meal. The menu I give is based on a 1780s cookbook the name of which escapes me.
> 
> 11) Lelouch gives the Loyal Toast, which traditionally is the first toast given when servicemen are present until this day.
> 
> 12) In 1807, a British naval task force bombarded Copenhagen, the capital of neutral Denmark, without a formal declaration of war and requisitioned the formidable Danish fleet. Widely seen as Britain's Moral Event Horizon by both Whig Britons and foreigners, it severely damaged Britain's reputation with the other powers of Europe while also demonstrating English rapid strike capabilities and keeping Danish ships from falling into French hands (the French did invade Denmark soon after).
> 
> 13) Several British expeditions to the Spanish viceroyalty Rio de la Plata - the north of modern day Argentina, capital Buenos Aires - were executed and planned. In fact, General Wellesley was originally intended to invade Buenos Aires with 9000 men in 1808 until news of the Spanish uprising changed the Government's plans. The Spanish alliance with France had severely hurt British trade in South America.
> 
> 14) France had been at peace with the three Eastern powers Austria, Russia and Prussia since 1805 and 1806, after the battles of Austerlitz and Jena-Auerstedt, respectively.
> 
> 15) British Army troop dispositions are based on data from 1812 and adapted for scale and the strategic situation of 1808.
> 
> 17) Sir Arthur Wellesley served his early career in British India, where his brother was colonial governor, and attracted metropolitan attention at the Battle of Assaye, when he decisively defeated a Marathi army three times the size of his own at minimal losses. After his return to Britain, he was appointed to lead the expeditionary army to Portugal in 1808. Concerns were raised about his being a "sepoy general," that is, only ever having commanded the mixed armies of India, and his ability to defeat the men who were universally regarded as the greatest generals of their age: Napoleon's marshals.
> 
> Please review.


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